


Losing Sleep

by wewereneverhomeless (hopewithfeathers)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopewithfeathers/pseuds/wewereneverhomeless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's having trouble sleeping without Dean, and Dean finds Sam in his bed every morning with no memory of how he got there.  Dean doesn't mind, and okay, maybe he encourages it a little--he's just trying to help his brother, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This story has underage, first-time weecest fronting, so if that bothers you, turn back now. Sam's fourteen and Dean's eighteen.

Dean wakes up slowly, flushed and disoriented, too warm beneath the flimsy blanket that’s tangled near his legs. He feels good, and he’s numb enough from sleep that he doesn’t notice the weight on his chest until his little brother shifts on top of him, huffing a breath over Dean’s bare chest. Sam tosses his head in his sleep, an entire clump of his too-long hair brushing Dean’s chin. Dean knows he should be more shocked, he should throw his brother off and make a joke about it, but Dean’s kind of incapable of moving. Sam is sprawled out on top of him, their bodies basically entwined, but Dean’s too sleepy to really care. To worry about what’s going to happen in the morning. 

Dean glances at the clock on the side table that’s not really his—it’s nearly 2 AM—and just mumbles “what the fuck, Sammy,” before throwing one arm across Sam’s back and sighing into his pillow. Sam lets out this little breath, a half-snore half-groan, and garbles “Dean” right into Dean’s neck. Sam makes a little “mm” sound and nuzzles him. Dean’s not really sure if he dreams it or not; he’s already halfway to sleep. 

It would be the tamest version of this dream he’s ever had, anyway. 

^^

in the morning, Dean’s a lot more aware. Like, really aware. He wakes up to the sound of Sam’s soft snores, his little brother’s warm breath against his neck and their legs twined together. Sam’s whole body is pressed against his from head to toe, and Dean can feel every breath that rattles his brother’s chest. His nerves feel like they’re on fire, and every part of him tingles where it touches Sam. 

“Fuck,” he grunts. He tries to shift away from Sam carefully, so not to wake him up, but the kid is like a fucking octopus. He clings even in his sleep, and when Dean moves his leg a little too far to the left, Sam lets out a soft noise of complaint. Sam’s always radiated like a hot furnace when he sleeps, and Dean is sweating where he’s pinned underneath him. If he’s honest, it’s not a bad feeling. He’s never felt more comfortable on a shitty rental house bed with springs digging into his back. 

“Sammy,” he grumbles without thinking. Sam stirs, mumbling a string of words and what sounds like Dean’s name. Dean freezes—in a second, his half morning hard on is a raging, pulsing need that needs to stop fucking now, because if Sammy wakes up— 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is more confused than sleep-muddled this time, though it still has that hoarse edge that makes Dean’s cock throb in his pants. Before Sam has a chance to process what’s going on, Dean flips them over so he can roll off Sam, almost falling straight off the bed. Sam’s too sleepy to catch the color high on Dean’s freckled cheeks, and he just kind of frowns and knuckles at his dazed eyes like a five-year-old. Dean lets himself relax. 

They’ve done mutual jerk offs before, and there aren’t exactly a lot of things they can hide from each other, but never anything like that. Never anything that close. They usually sleep in the same bed, this rental house that they’ve had for about a week now is a rare exception, but Sam hasn’t cuddled up to him like that since he was little. And he’s definitely a lot heavier than he was then. 

“Why—“ Sam yawns hugely. “Why ‘m I in your bed, Dean?” Sam looks at Dean like he would have the answer to that question, like Dean got up in the middle of the night and carried Sam in here for fuck’s sake. 

“I don’t know, Sammy, why are you in my bed?” He snaps, because he’s tired and his back really does hurt, and he needs to go jerk off. Sam looks lost for a moment, and Dean rolls his eyes. Sam’s always so confused when he wakes up. 

“I don’t remember,” he says. “I didn’t…I don’t know.” 

“Must’ve slept walked,” Dean teases, softening. “Jeez, Sammy, you finally get a bed to yourself and you can’t even stay there.” 

“I’ve never slept walked before,” Sam murmurs, but he looks intrigued now. The nerd. “But, um, sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. 

Dean shrugs, halfway to the bathroom already. 

“S’not like I’m not used to it, Sam. But try not to sleep on top of me next time. Couldn’t breathe with your girly hair in my face.” Dean makes a disgusted face just to get a rise out of Sam, but it falters before he even closes the door.

^^

They leave the house a few days later, once John returns from demolishing a vampire nest, and Sam doesn’t wind up in Dean’s bed again before then. He looks more and more exhausted every day, though, and Dean’s starting to worry. 

Sam’s tired enough to fall asleep slumped against Dean’s side when they’re watching old MASH reruns, tired enough to lay with his head in Dean’s lap in the car and sleep for hours, too tired, even, to fight with John over every little thing. 

One morning on their way south of St. Louis, after Sam practically begged Dean to ride in the back with him again (“you just want to use me as your goddamn pillow, Sammy”), Dean realizes Sam can’t sleep because he’s not sharing a bed with him like he’s used to. Sam’s face is buried in Dean’s thigh, and he’s sleeping deeply like he hasn’t slept in years. Dean bites his lip to keep the grin off his face. He’s happy, warm, that Sam can’t sleep without him, and that makes him guilty. Sam is going to have to learn how to sleep without him sometime. When he was ten it was still okay, but now that he’s getting older, even Dean knows it’s not really acceptable for them to be sleeping in the same bed still. John doesn’t really make a big deal out of it though, so Dean doesn’t complain. He doesn’t mind sharing with his little brother. 

He likes it. And that’s not normal, either. Dean thinks when the fuck have we ever been normal, anyway, and settles his arm around Sam’s back. Sam mumbles Dean’s name in his sleep, right there in the back of the Impala, with John singing off-key to Zeppelin in the front seat. Dean makes a choked sound in the back of his throat and pushes Sam’s stupid hair off his forehead, thumbing over his temple and cheeks. He strokes his hand through Sam’s hair like Sam’s a girl or something. Sam makes a small noise and presses his face unconsciously closer to Dean’s hip. Dean scratches at Sam’s scalp, tugs his hair back in long strokes, just so Sam will do it again. He hates himself for it. 

Dean’s dozing off closer to the afternoon, his head lolling against the Impala’s backseat and his hand still moving through Sam’s hair. 

“Dean?” Sam asks drowsily. Dean knows he’s awake when he shifts a little. 

“Hmm?” Dean knows Sam’s hesitating; he can feel his little brother’s eyes on his face. Dean doesn’t stop his hand, though. He’s comfortable and sleepy. He loves Sam against him like this, and he doesn’t want to stop. 

“Nothing,” Sam says. “Feels good.” Sam arches like a cat into Dean’s fingers, and curls closer to him like it’s possible. Dean smiles, and he thinks he’s mostly asleep, because he’s sure Sam purrs when he traces behind his ear. He hates himself a little less, because he makes Sam happy. 

^^

John leaves them in a motel in Arkansas, a tiny town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere that Dean can’t remember the name of. Sam and Dean do the usual things to keep themselves entertained, watching stupid TV and playing poker until Sam can’t keep his eyes open anymore. Dean’s glad when Sam yawns get longer and longer, because he’s on his fifth beer, and he’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t have dared Sam to a little strip poker, instead. 

This is usually the time Dean would double check his salt job on the doors and windows, leaving Sam to sleep, and head out to a bar. He would drink until he forgets he’s not supposed to feel this way about his little brother, and bite his lip to keep from moaning Sam’s name to the chick he’s fucking in the back of the Impala. But tonight, Dean just kind of shoves Sam’s head playfully and tells him to get the fuck to bed before he passes out. Dean flops back on the other bed, and Sam looks over at him from under his huddle of covers. He looks like a kid when he’s all curled up like that. Dean swallows and wants.

He’s so fucked up. 

“You’re not going out?” Sam asks, muffled through his yawn. 

“Nah,” Dean says. he doesn’t offer an explanation. He just doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to go flirt with girls he doesn’t care about, he doesn’t want to hope to find one with shaggy dark hair, so he can pull on it and pretend it’s Sam’s. He just doesn’t fucking want to. He’s tired. 

Sam looks like he’s going to ask, his lips parting, but that’s as far as he gets. Dean stares, because fuck, he’s had too much to drink and Sam looks sinfully good in the pale light of the motel lamp. The air is too tight around them, charged, and Dean feels like maybe he should breathe. 

Sam catches him looking, but he doesn’t look away or play it off, like Dean’s being an idiot. He stares back. His eyes sweep over Dean’s face, down his body and back up again, and Sam blushes harder than he did when Lilly Collins kissed him in the third grade. Dean flushes in return, and in that moment, he knows Sam reciprocates. He knows it’s hurting Sam like it’s hurting him, but it doesn’t make Dean feel better like he thought it would. It makes him feel like shit.

“Dean,” Sam whispers. He’s nervous, his voice too high-pitched, and Dean knows what he’s thinking. What they’re both thinking. Dean shakes his head. He gulps back the tears in the back of his throat. 

“Goodnight, Sammy.” Sam sucks in his breath at the air of finality, and closes his mouth. Dean shuts his eyes, but it’s a long time until he falls asleep. Not until he hears the soft sleep breaths from the other bed. 

Dean wakes up with Sam crushing his lungs, but instead of pushing him away like he should, he wraps one arm around Sam’s waist and rubs his back in gentle circles with the other hand. Sam’s already sleep limp against him, but he sighs Dean’s name, and fuck, this kid is going to be the death of him. Dean bites hard at the inside of his cheek and whispers “Sammy” back to him. 

^^

Another tiny house, another state. Some backwater town in Mississippi is where everything changes. 

Sam’s been really quiet lately. He’s not talking much, even to Dean. Dean doesn’t think he’s mad, because he still wakes up with Sam all around him every morning, and Sam keeps smiling at him. They’re not the smiles he usually gives Dean—they’re hesitant, weaker, and they make Dean’s stomach hurt. He catches Sam researching though, sees him gazing intently at the laptop over articles like “Sleep and Stress” and “Fifteen Ways to Settle Your Mind.” Sam always closes the laptop with a startled glare when he sees Dean looking, and tells him to fuck off. Dean wishes he knew what to do. 

John leaves them like usual, and ruffles Sam’s hair on his way out, like usual. He tells Dean “watch out for your brother,” like usual, and Dean says “yes sir” like he doesn’t feel smaller than he’s ever felt in his life. 

Dean wakes up at 2 AM, but this time there’s no Sam. He’s not even surprised how disappointed he is, but before he can get up to check on his brother, he hears chattering coming from the front of the house. Confused, Dean rolls out of bed and stumbles into the dark hallway. He finds Sam with his back to him, watching an old MASH rerun with all the lights still off. 

“Sammy?” Dean mumbles. He’s not entirely sure he’s not dreaming. Sam doesn’t turn to look at him, and Dean tenses. “Sam? Everything okay, kiddo?” Dean sits down on the couch next to Sam, knocking their knees together, and giving his little brother a sleepy smile. Sam doesn’t even acknowledge him, just looks blankly at the TV screen, slumped back against the cushions. Dean frowns, a little offended. He’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything to make Sam angry with him. He tilts his head, looking closely at Sam’s glazed expression, and—

Oh. Oh. Dean grins, chuckling. 

“Seriously? You sleep-walk and decide to watch TV instead of coming into my room?” Dean pouts a little, because does that mean anything? Maybe even Sam’s unconscious mind is getting tired of him. Sam suddenly gives a little whimper, curling his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt. Dean startles a little, leaning closer, but he knows he’s not supposed to try to wake Sam up. “Sammy? You okay?” Sam mumbles something, and then turns his head a little to look at Dean. Dean blinks in surprise, smiling at him.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. Sam’s lips quirk up in a smile at Dean’s voice.

“Dean,” he mumbles. His voice sounds a little disjointed, like it would if he just woke up. 

“You want to go back to bed, Sammy?” 

“Dean,” Sam says again, and his voice goes softer, so Dean has to strain to hear it. “Dean.” His looks back to the TV, but he looks so sad, and Dean almost scrambles to touch him. 

“Hey, Sam, what’s wrong? It’s okay.” Dean leans as close as he can, and accidently brushes Sam’s arm. Sam sucks in a little breath, but he doesn’t seem scared or anything. Dean hesitates, before cupping Sam’s elbow, stroking a little over the skin. “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m right here.” 

“No,” Sam whimpers. “No.” Dean pulls his hand back like Sam hit him, but as soon as he lets go, Sam gives this little sob, and flails his arm in Dean’s direction. His eyes fill with tears, and Dean freezes, helpless. 

“Sammy, hey, no, shhh.” Dean puts his hand back at Sam’s elbow, tucking closer to Sam’s side. 

“De,” Sam cries, tears dribbling down his cheeks. He hasn’t called Dean that since he was about 8 years old. 

“I’m right here, Sam, God, wake up.” Dean knows he shouldn’t wake Sam up, but he can’t stand to see Sam so distraught. He’s obviously having a bad dream or something. “Sammy, wake up.” He fumbles through Sam’s hair, touching it as gently as he possibly can. “Sammy, shhh.” Sam doesn’t wake up, but his sobs quiet a little. He looks away from the TV and at Dean again, and it’s honestly a little creepy. Sam’s eyes are dazed, like he’s not really there, but he gives a sharp inhale and crawls right onto Dean’s lap like he belongs there. Dean freezes, tensing, because if Sam starts rubbing off on him right now he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do. Dean breathes out slowly and tries not to think about his baby brother’s crotch pressed against his. Sam makes a little noise, flailing his arms around for a few seconds, before Dean realizes what he’s trying to do. Dean helps Sam wrap his arms around his neck. His brother settles instantly, his breath puffing against Dean’s skin. 

“How old are you, you big baby,” Dean teases, but his voice gets caught in his throat. Sam just doesn’t seem like he’s having a wet dream, more like he just wants to be comforted. Dean wonders what’s wrong, if something’s wrong. The urge to wake Sam and ask him is almost overwhelming. 

But he doesn’t. He sits there with his fourteen-year-old brother on his lap, listening as Sam’s breaths get calmer, and he relaxes against him. Dean nudges his head into Sam’s, shaking a little as he laughs. He knows he needs to get Sam back to bed, and he’s half thinking of trying to carry him when Sam jerks a little in his arms, and lets out a soft, anxious sound. Dean rubs up his back, tilting his head to look at Sam when he lifts his head the tiniest bit. Sam holds it up like it weighs fifty pounds.   
He looks up at him through his still wet eyelashes, and he looks so disoriented that Dean can’t even laugh. He rubs his back harder, trying to ground him. 

“You’re okay, Sam,” he says instinctively. “You were just sleepwalking, you’re okay.” Sam’s heart pounds against Dean’s ribs, but his panicked breathing dies down after a minute or two. Dean smiles when he thinks Sam will smile back. He does, but it’s weak. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?” Sam doesn’t move right away, and he still seems confused, so Dean pats his leg. “Up, Sammy.” 

Sam gives this little “oh!” and nearly falls off the couch trying to scramble off Dean’s lap, his cheeks aflame. 

“Sorry!” he yelps, and Dean clears his throat to hide his laugh. “I don’t know why I—I don’t—“ 

“Sam, chill, man.” Dean rolls his eyes. He grabs at Sam’s elbow again when Sam just stands there looking lost, leading him down the hallway. Sam’s still blushing when Dean gets him to his room, but he doesn’t shake off Dean’s hand. If he notices they’re in Dean’s room instead of his, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are drooping like he’s going to fall asleep on his feet, so Dean pushes him onto the mattress. “You’re so useless,” Dean says, but Sam’s yawning too big to catch the jab. 

Sam curls up against Dean’s pillows, and it’s so different from the way that he usually sleeps when he has enough room—sprawled out like a human starfish—that Dean frowns. Something really must be bothering him. And Dean’s pretty sure he knows what it is, but fuck if he knows how to bring it up. How to even say it. Dean sighs, crawling in next to Sam with the plenty of space Sam has left him. 

He expects Sam to be asleep, but Sam’s watching him warily through half-lidded eyes. Dean knows he’s going to have to do something. He hates the way Sam is looking at him. Sam closes his eyes, finally, but he’s still tense. Dean takes the opportunity to wriggle closer—he’s always been better at showing things rather than saying them. Sam sucks in a breath when Dean wraps a hesitant arm around his waist, pulling him closer so that their noses nearly brush. 

“Dean,” Sam whispers. His eyes are wide when Dean looks back up to his face. He looks almost hopeful, and Dean swallows nervously. This can’t happen, this can’t happen, he’s your goddamn brother. The voice in his head sounds like John. “What are you doing?”

Dean almost says something ridiculous like “I’m cold,” but he just shrugs instead, going for nonchalance. 

“It’s going to happen anyway, Sam,” he says. Sam watches him carefully, going almost cross-eyed, and Dean has the awful, aching urge to kiss him. He shuts his eyes tight and ignores it. “’Night.” Sam sighs and his breath floods Dean’s nose. Instead of it grossing him out, Dean wishes he could pin Sammy to the bed, and that’s when he knows he’s well and truly fucked. 

“’Night, Dean.” Sam mumbles. He tucks his head under Dean’s, his heart pounding against Dean’s chest until he relaxes. His stupid hair tickles Dean’s nose, and Dean doesn’t even mind. 

^^

For the second time in a while, Dean wakes up without Sam sprawled all over him. He grumbles and shifts, reaching for his brother with barely awake movement. His hand comes into contact with Sam’s stomach, and his little brother gives a small “oof” and laughs breathlessly. Dean cracks open one eye to find him. Sam isn’t too far away, right next to him and propped up on one elbow, curled towards Dean slightly. He’s watching Dean with pink cheeks and soft lips parted in a fond smile, but he doesn’t look away when Dean stares back. 

“Hi,” he says. His voice is full of something Dean’s too scared to name. Dean lets his eyes slip closed again, yawning loudly. 

“You were watching me sleep? That’s creepy even for you, Sammy.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. Sam in a good mood, especially in the morning, is a rare thing these days—Dean struggles to keep his eyes open, wrinkling his nose at his little brother. 

“You sleep well? I mean, besides when you wandered all around the house.” 

“Um, yeah,” Sam mumbles. His cheeks darken. “I don’t…I don’t really remember anything before I got back to bed. Did I do anything weird?” Sam pretends to be vaguely interested, but Dean can tell by the way he gnaws at his bottom lip that he’s worried. 

“Nah,” Dean says, and it’s mostly true. “You just turned on the TV and were sitting there when I found you. You did…” Dean hesitates. 

“What?” Sam’s voice rises in panic. 

“What were you dreaming about?” Dean asks. He clears his throat, and rubs the back of his neck. He really doesn’t want to embarrass his brother, but he needs to know what’s wrong. “You…you were crying in your sleep.” 

“What else?” Sam demands, because he knows there’s more. 

“I…well I tried to talk to you, but you just kept saying my name. And you sort of…hugged me and calmed down.” 

“Hugged you?” Sam says uncertainly. 

“Okay, more liked crawled into my lap.” Sam’s instantly mortified, his cheeks burning red. He sputters, and Dean can’t manage to hold in his laugh this time. “Relax, Sammy. No big deal.” Sam struggles for words, opening and closing his mouth, and Dean pushes down the itching urge he has to press his lips to Sam’s. He swallows. “Sam—“

“I’m going to make breakfast!” Sam says suddenly. He’s untangled from the sheets and off the bed so fast that Dean barely has time to blink. “Do you want eggs and bacon?” Sam doesn’t give him time to answer though, and Dean left staring at the open doorway. He sighs, but reluctantly gets up to follow Sam. 

“Sam,” he says quietly. He sits down at the kitchen table while Sam bangs around. He closes the cabinets louder than he needs to, and Dean waits until he’s cracking the eggs over a bowl. “Sammy. We’re going to have to talk about this. And that’s me saying that.” Sam snorts over the eggs, and Dean takes that as a good sign. “Just…I just want to help, kiddo.” He knows it was the wrong thing to say, because Sam immediately tenses up, his shoulders hunching away from Dean.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he says. It’s not angry. He sounds resigned, upset, and Dean clamps his mouth shut.

“You’re fourteen,” he says, instead of the “I know” he’d wanted to say. He is, though. He’s fourteen. Practically a baby—at least that’s what Dean tries to tell himself. 

“You’re eighteen,” Sam fires back. He mixes the eggs viciously. “I know you like to think that you’re an adult, Dean, but you’re not.” Dean clenches his jaw. 

“Sam, that’s not the point.” He doesn’t know how they even got here. “I-I just…look, please, okay? Just please.” Sam turns to meet his eyes then, but Dean ducks his head. Sam goes back to the stove, pouring the eggs into a frying pan and poking at them with a spatula. Dean watches him for a while. Watches the way he swings his hips a little when he shifts back and fourth between the pans, and stares at the way his legs look in just Dean’s hand-me-down boxers. 

Dean’s whole body shudders, down his spine and to the tips of his toes, and he’s left with a dry mouth, flushed cheeks, and a very interested dick. Sam hums some song to himself, fiddling with the switch on the stove, and Dean closes his eyes. He’s so tired of trying to push these feelings back, he’s so tired of wanting Sam and needing Sam and, well, loving Sam, and not being able to have him. He’s disgusted with himself, because he already has Sam every other way but this—not this messed up, sexual, hell, romantic way, but he’s never wanted anyone or anything more in his life than he wants Sam in that moment. In every way he can. He’s sick of pretending he doesn’t. 

“Sam,” he whispers. Sam must sense the defeat in his tone, because he turns around, both hands on the frying pan and his eyebrow raised. He blinks at Dean’s expression; Dean thinks he probably looks a weird mix between sick and turned on. Well, fuck. “Fuck it,” Dean says. “Just fuck it.” 

“Dean, what—“ 

Sam’s cut off with a startled gasp when Dean practically flies from his chair, knocking Sam a little roughly to the side so he can back him up into the counter. Sam’s staring at him, wide-eyed, and Dean falters for a moment. Has he read it all wrong? Maybe Sam doesn’t want this; maybe Sam just wants his big brother. Something Dean is definitely not being right now. 

“Tell me what to do,” Dean pleads. “Tell me you want this, okay? Sammy, just talk to me. I don’t know what to do.” 

Sam stares at him, breathing harshly, his head tipped back to look at Dean in the eyes. Dean’s got him practically bent over the sink, and they’re so close that their noses bump together when Sam moves. Sam’s eyes flicker back and fourth from Dean’s eyes to his mouth, and Dean waits hopefully, his legs trembling. Sam lights up suddenly, like he found the answer to something on Dean’s face, and reaches behind Dean to tangle his fingers in his hair. 

“Want you to kiss me,” Sam says. His voice is barely more than a whisper. Dean swallows loudly. “I always want you to kiss me.” Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to make the move, instead he tugs his brother’s head down until their lips meet in the middle. 

It’s nothing like Dean imagined at first—it’s not messy or rushed. It’s slow and careful. Tentative. Sam’s mouth is warm, his lips slack like he’s surprised, and the whole thing just seems so normal for a moment, because this is Sam. His little brother, his best friend, the person he loves more than anyone else in the world without even a doubt in his mind. It feels so right to kiss him. 

Their lips make a soft smacking sound when Dean pulls back. The kiss had only been for a couple seconds, but Sam is panting, his eyes still closed and his head tilted towards Dean’s, like he’s waiting for the next press of lips.

Dean doesn’t keep him waiting. 

He leans in and gives Sam another uncertain kiss, small and fleeting, and this time Sam makes a noise of complaint when Dean moves away. The third kiss, Dean rocks forward on his toes to reach Sam’s mouth, lasts longer. It’s warm and quick, but this time Sam presses back. Dean gives him small, gentle kisses on his lips, on the side of his mouth, determined not to rush. Sam grabs at Dean’s waist like he’s dizzy, clenching and unclenching his fist in Dean’s ratty t-shirt. 

“Dean,” he says, right against Dean’s lips. Barely a breath. “Dean.” 

“Sam,” Dean mumbles. “S’okay. I gotcha.” 

Dean pulls away and dives back to Sam’s pink mouth so many times that he loses count. Their mouths make such a loud smooching noise when they separate that it kind of jars Dean. This is Sam. And for the firs time, this moment isn’t a big deal because Sam’s his brother, but it’s a big deal because this is Sam. Dean wants to make it so good for him.   
He knows Sam doesn’t know much about kissing, so he’s the one to change the angle, tilting his head and catching Sam’s lips between his. He tongues at Sam’s bottom lip, scraping it with his teeth, and Sam lets out this stunned whimper that Dean’s instantly addicted to. Sam tastes like sleep and bacon grease, and Dean hums back, curving his hands over his little brother’s hips. Sam’s a sloppy kisser, only because he’s new, jerking when Dean runs his tongue over his and licking back eagerly. But he’s so enthusiastic about it that Dean smiles against his mouth. 

“Mmm, Sammy, take it down a notch,” he mumbles, placing more little kisses at the corner of Sam’s mouth. Sam blushes, but he just looks more determined, nodding, and finds Dean’s lips again. Dean licks at the roof of Sam’s mouth, trying to show his brother just the right amount of tongue. Sam’s making these little noises that go straight to Dean’s cock, and he groans back, shoving Sam further against the counter. Sam pulls his mouth away to heave in a breath, looking at Dean with dazed eyes and such sinfully red lips that Dean loses what little breath he had left. 

“Want you,” Sam says. “Want you to—to…” 

“What, Sammy? I’ll do anything, Sam, what? What do you want?” Sam leans even more into Dean, pressing their bodies flush together. His hips stutter forward into Dean’s like he can’t help it, and he rubs against him with a small moan. “Oh, fuck, Sammy,” Dean says. 

“Sorry,” Sam says anxiously, but Dean tightens one hand on Sam’s hips and brings the other one up to cup his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Dean says. Fucking a thousand times more than okay. “It’s okay, Sammy. Come on.” He kisses Sam again, and Sam whines into his mouth—it’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard, and then he’s rocking his hips to meet Sam’s. His brother is so wrecked just from kissing, “God, Sam, need it pretty bad, huh?” He presses a hard kiss to his little brother’s temple, resting his cheek there. 

“Yeah,” Sam moans. “Yeah, need you, De.” 

“Fuck, Sam.” 

Sam moves suddenly, nudging Dean backwards, and walking until the back of Dean’s legs are bumping into the kitchen chair. Dean gets what Sam wants and flops down into it so he’s looking up at Sam. Sam beams, that big smile he saves for Dean when he gets back from a hunt unharmed, or when Dean sends him a secretive grin from the shotgun seat of the Impala; a wink thrown in if Dad’s not looking. Dean smiles back, gripping Sam’s hip bones as he lowers himself onto Dean’s lap right there in the kitchen. This time though, Dean feels his brother’s hard on against his stomach. 

“This okay?” Sam whispers.

“Yeah, shit, Sam. Yeah.” 

“You want this? Tell me you want this, Dean, please.” Dean’s head jerks up at Sam’s pleading, uncertain tone, and his hands automatically tighten up and around Sam’s back. 

“Want you so bad, Sammy. I’ve never wanted anything this bad.” Dean trails his hand up one of Sam’s lanky legs, squeezing Sam’s thigh when Sam whimpers. “ I just want everything with you.” Dean doesn’t say “I love you,” but Sam seems to get the message anyway. Sam seems frozen against him, but then he rocks forward into Dean’s hips, rubbing their dicks together when Dean pushes up, too. 

“How long?” Sam gasps.

“Fuck, um.” And Dean tries to think about it. He can’t pinpoint an exact moment when he decided he wanted his brother in every possible way, or when exactly he fell in love with him. Only when he realized it was fucked up. Sam waits, breathing hard against Dean’s neck. Dean jerks his hips up unconsciously at the feel of Sam’s hot breath on his skin. 

“Always,” he says. Once he does, he’s worried Sam will take it the wrong way, but Sam lets out this little sob, like he’s close and happy all at once. 

“Me too,” he says. Dean turns his head to kiss Sam’s flushed cheek. “Can I...?” Dean laughs incredulously. 

“Go ahead, Sammy.” 

Sam rocks in Dean’s lap and Dean pushes up as best he can with Sam’s weight on his legs, until they’re both sweaty and moaning. Sam’s making these little whimpering sounds that drive Dean crazy, and Dean kisses Sam hard on the mouth so he can swallow them. Sam pulls back a fraction of an inch, breathing harshly.

“Dean, I’m close,” he mumbles. “Gonna—“

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean begs. “Yeah, do it.” Sam comes with a bitten off cry against Dean’s shoulder, his hips stuttering through it while Dean presses kisses to his sweat-curled hair. Sam gives him a lazy kiss once he’s come down, and all it takes is a hard bite on Dean’s lip before he’s coming in between them. 

“Sam.” Sam buries his face in Dean’s hair, mumbling something Dean’s can’t make out. “What was that, Sammy?” Sam seems to slump even further against him, and they sit like that for a while, Sam all over his lap and Dean stroking drowsily up and down Sam’s spine. 

“Just…that wasn’t just a one time thing, right?” 

“Did you hear what I said?” Dean says, annoyed, but mostly affectionate. “I want this, Sam. Um, everything. I want everything. And as long as you…I mean, if you don’t like it—“ Dean huffs in frustration, and Sam laughs quietly against his jaw. 

“I do,” he says. “Me too.”

“Good. So that’s what was bothering you, right? No more sleep-walking episodes?” Sam turns red, swatting at Dean’s face. Dean catches his arm, grinning. “Alright, okay, I was joking, jeez.” 

“It was more because you were in a different room,” Sam admits. “I didn’t—I don’t like it.” 

“No more sleeping in different beds, got it,” Dean says. Sam pulls back to glare at him, but Dean’s smiling so hard his eyes crinkle at the corners, and Sam sighs and smiles back. He shifts a little, wrinkling his nose at the mess in his underwear. 

“Ugh,” Sam complains. “I need to shower. And—oh no, the food!” He jumps off Dean’s lap, rushing to the stove, but they both know it’s too late. The smell of burnt bacon wafts from the surface, and the eggs are sticking to the pan. “Dean,” Sam says like it’s all Dean’s fault. Dean cracks up, laughing until his gut hurts and Sam’s laughing, too. “Whatever.” Sam dumps the ruined food in the sink, turning to Dean, a little put out. “I wanted to make you breakfast,” he admits. 

“You don’t need to woo me, Sam,” Dean chuckles. But his heart swells until it’s too warm in his chest, and he gets up so he can throw his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Come on. We’ll go get cleaned up and then make more, okay?” 

Sam bumps his hip against Dean’s, and it’s so familiar and shockingly new at the same time that it makes Dean dizzy. He keeps his arm around Sam and Sam presses closer like Dean’s going to get away. 

Sam crawls into Dean’s bed that night and flops in a heap right onto Dean’s chest, spreading his limbs out all over the bed. Sam cuts off Dean’s laugh with a kiss, and Dean tugs him down with a smile and a warm feeling of right.


End file.
